“I stopped last night with a friend in Grove
Park,” Nevill answered, after a brief hesitation,
“and feeling a bit seedy this morning, I came
for a stroll along the river. I hear of a gallant
rescue from the water, and, of course, you are the
hero, Jack. Is the young lady all right?”

“I believe so.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“Miss Madge Poster, sir,” spoke up the
landlord, “and I can assure you she was very
nearly drowned—­”

“Not so bad as that,” modestly protested
Jack.

Victor Nevill’s face had changed color again,
and for a second there was a troubled look in his
eyes. He spoke the girl’s name carelessly,
then added in hurried tones:

“You must get into dry clothes at once, Jack,
or you will be ill—­”

“Just what I told him, sir,” interrupted
the landlord. “Young men will be
reckless.”

“I am going back to town to keep an engagement,”
Nevill resumed. “Can I do anything for
you?”

“If you will, old chap,” Jack said gratefully.
“Stop at my studio,” giving him the address,
“and send my man Alphonse here with a dry rig.”

“I’ll go right away,” replied Neville.
“I can get a cab at Kew Bridge. Come and
see me, Jack. Here is my card. I put up in
Jermyn street.”

“And you know where to find me,” said
Jack. “I am seldom at home in the evenings,
though.”

A few more words, and Neville departed. Jack
was prevailed upon by the landlord to go to an upper
room, where he stripped off his drenched garments
and rubbed himself dry, then putting on a suit of clothes
belonging to his host. The latter brought the
cheering news that Miss Foster had taken a hot draught
and was sleeping peacefully, and that it would be
quite unnecessary to send for a doctor.

A little later Alphonse and a cab arrived at the rear
of the Black Bull, where there was a lane for vehicular
traffic, and Jack once more changed his attire.
He left his card and a polite message for the girl,
pressed a substantial tip on the reluctant landlord,
and was soon rattling homeward up Chiswick high-road,
feeling none the worse for his wetting, but, on the
contrary, gifted with a keen appetite. He had
sent his boat back to Maynard’s.

“What a pretty girl that was!” he reflected.
“It’s the first time in five years I’ve
given a serious thought to a woman. But I shall
forget her as quickly—­I am wedded to my
art. It’s rather a fetching name, Madge
Foster. Come to think of it, it was hardly the
proper thing to leave my card. I suppose I will
get a fervid letter of gratitude from the girl’s
father, or the two of them may even invade my studio.
How could I have been so stupid?”

He ate a hearty lunch, and set to work diligently.
But he could not keep his mind from the adventure
of the morning, and he saw more frequently the face
of the lovely young English girl, than that of the
swarthy Moorish dancer he was doing in oils.